Traitor in Her Arms

by Shana Galen

  She’d burned the Pimpernel’s instructions before disembarking from the Fugitive, and now she recited them silently in her mind. She must find 33 Rue Saint-Honoré as quickly as possible. The crowd in front of her plodded forward, and Gabrielle eyed the imposing barricade. French soldiers, dressed in blue coats with white trim and dingy white breeches, lounged about, smoking and drinking. Their leader was a slovenly man wearing a Phrygian cap with a large tricolored cockade pinned to it. His cheeks were purple from his exertions as he strutted about assiduously examining each cart and each person coming or going. His cockade, a circular piece of fabric in red, white, and blue, bobbed as he moved.

  Gabrielle sighed. No wonder the line moved so slowly.

  A man beside her nodded at the soldiers’ leader. “That’s Sergeant Bibot,” he said.

  Gabrielle looked about, realized the man was speaking to her. “Oh. Yes, of course,” she answered in French. “He looks…taller than I expected.” She had no idea who Sergeant Bibot was, but if everyone in Paris knew of him, then she must pretend as well.

  “He’ll catch the Scarlet Pimpernel.” Her companion spat for good measure. “If anyone can do it, Bibot can.”

  “I’m sure that’s true.”

  “Did you hear what Citoyen Foucquier-Tinville said last week?” the man asked. Gabrielle shook her head. Over the past few years, she had paid cursory attention to events in France. She knew enough about the events to converse in a drawing room and identify the important personages. Now she wished she had been more interested in some of the minor players. From the corner of her eye, she saw Sedgwick step closer. He’d been her constant shadow since the Fugitive. Was he trying to overhear the man beside her or protect her from him?

  She looked away. “I did not hear Citoyen Foucquier-Tinville’s speech.”

  “He said the next time the Scarlet Pimpernel or one of his League is allowed in or out of Paris, the man at the gate will dance with Madame Guillotine.”

  Gabrielle trembled. The mention of the Scarlet Pimpernel made her uneasy, and she was nearing this Bibot. What would happen if he found something amiss in her papers? What if he realized she worked for the Scarlet Pimpernel?

  “Do you know Bibot was the man who caught the former comtesse de Tonnerre?”

  Gabrielle had not known that, and now she wondered why they had chosen to enter through the West Gate. Why not the North Gate or the East Gate?

  “They say he has a way of sniffing out aristocrats. Sent the former comtesse to La Force and the Pimpernel’s man to the guillotine.” The man spat again. “Well, he would have gone to our lady if the mobs hadn’t gotten to him first. Tore him apart, they did.”

  Gabrielle took a shaky breath.

  “Just what one of the Scarlet Pimpernel’s men deserves”—the man spat again—“don’t you agree?”

  “I do,” Gabrielle said. She touched her fingers to the tricolor rosette she’d pinned on her dress aboard the Fugitive. Thank God Diana had thought to procure one for her. Everyone wore them. Even Sedgwick had managed to find one and pinned it to his lapel. He wasn’t wearing his usual satin coat and breeches, but his coat was still better than any of the others in the crowd. And yet he managed to look like one of them—something in the way he stood, she thought.

  “Papers!” Bibot called. “Have your papers ready.”

  The man who’d been speaking to Gabrielle shuffled forward, his papers extended. Gabrielle watched as Bibot perused them then waved the man through. She closed her eyes briefly. Please, God, let it go well for me. Please.

  Bibot reached out dirty fingers and snatched Gabrielle’s papers from her hand. He studied them, looked at her, then handed them back. “Citoyenne Leboeuf.” He nodded at her.

  “Sergeant Bibot.” She tried a smile but felt her lips tremble. Either the man did not notice or was used to the crowds quaking before him, because he waved her through. She started walking away, feeling the stares of the soldiers pierce her back. She hoped Sedgwick made it through as easily, but she would not stand by to see.

  “Oh, Citoyenne Leboeuf?”

  Gabrielle froze. Her every instinct told her to run, but she knew the action would be suicide. Instead, she slowly turned to face the barricade. Sedgwick stood before Bibot, his papers extended. Bibot had not yet taken them.

  Bibot stared at her.

  She couldn’t help it. She looked over her shoulder, studying her escape options. The open street was filled with soldiers who blocked her path. The crowds, who had been speaking in low murmurs and whispers, were now shrilly silent.

  He gestured for her to approach. Somehow she forced her legs to move. Even more difficult, she kept her gaze from straying to Sedgwick. If she were taken, she did not want him to suffer a similar fate. She hoped he didn’t intend to play the hero.

  And then again, she hoped he did.

  “Citoyenne,” Bibot said when she stood before him. He stank of onions and liquor, a sharp contrast to Sedgwick beside him. She couldn’t smell him now, but when he’d taken her in his arms this morning—had it only been this morning? It seemed years had passed since then—he’d smelled pleasantly of leather and soap. She couldn’t help but steal one look at him. How she wished she were in his arms again—safe in his arms.

  “Yes, Sergeant?” Her voice didn’t waver, though her entire body quaked as though it was a tiny leaf in a furious rainstorm.

  “You are a lace maker.”

  “That’s correct, Sergeant.”

  “Hold out your hands.”

  Gabrielle, puzzled, made to obey and then hesitated slightly.

  Oh, God. Oh no.

  Her arms halted in midmotion, and she curled her hands into fists to hide them. She was doomed. This much she knew. Once Bibot saw her smooth, uncallused fingers, he would know she was no lace maker. She would be sent to La Force.

  Or worse.

  It didn’t seem possible, but the crowds hushed further. Even the chickens and the cows ceased their squawking and lowing. People leaned forward, staring at her, staring at her hands. They hoped her hands were soft and lily white. Then they’d have something to tell their families at dinner tonight—that Sergeant Bibot caught another of the Pimpernel’s League.

  “Citoyenne?” Bibot said sharply. “Your hands.”

  Gabrielle stood like a statue, knowing she had no choice but to obey, and knowing to do so was her death knell. Slowly she extended her arms and unclenched her fingers.

  Bibot reached for her hands, and Sedgwick stepped forward—she knew not why.

  “Sergeant!” one of the soldiers on the other side of the barricade called. “I’ve got one!”

  Bibot’s head whipped to look at the soldier who was examining those who wished to leave Paris while the sergeant himself dealt with Gabrielle. The soldier indicated the side of an old carriage, and Gabrielle saw what the owners of the carriage had not—the coat of arms had been painted over, but the conveyance needed more paint. The carriage had probably been painted in darkness, but the aristocratic insignia was quite evident in the light of day.

  Gabrielle closed her fists again, and Bibot pushed past her to approach the carriage. He yanked the door open, exposing the figure of a small, delicate man crouched on the squabs.

  Velvet squabs.

  Gabrielle drew her breath in with the rest of the crowds.

  “And who are you?” Bibot demanded.

  “Citoyen Dupont,” the man answered, but the lilt of his speech, the way he held himself and looked down at Bibot, damned him. He was an aristocrat, through and through.

  “Let me see your papers,” Bibot demanded. The soldier who had called his sergeant over handed them to Bibot.

  Gabrielle felt Sedgwick’s hand on her arm. Without thinking, she stepped closer, allowed herself to be drawn against him. He was solid and steady, whereas she shivered with fear.

  Bibot studied the papers, glanced at the man in the carriage, then at the crowd. “These papers are false!” he announced.

  The
crowd around Gabrielle and Sedgwick pushed closer. The air around them, crisp and cool with the promise of autumn only moments before, turned hot and stuffy.

  “I know that man!” a woman in the crowd screamed. “He’s the former marquis de Comborn!”

  Gabrielle stared at her, wondering who would expose the poor man thus. As the woman set her knitting aside and climbed down from her cart, Gabrielle saw she was old, her hair stringy and gray, her clothes shabby. On her feet she wore the sabots so common in the countryside. In her hand she held a whip with colorful ribbons. Then Gabrielle peered closer.

  “Those aren’t ribbons,” she murmured.

  “No,” Sedgwick answered. “It’s hair cut from the victims of the guillotine.”

  Bile rose in Gabrielle’s throat. The whip’s handle held curly blond hair, straight brown hair, tangled auburn hair, and even coarse silver hair.

  “Breathe,” Sedgwick murmured against her ear. “We’ll be free of this in a moment.”

  “How—?”

  Bibot pulled the marquis from his carriage and shoved him to the ground. The poor man fell on his face, and when he looked up, blood marred his smooth cheek. Gabrielle moved to help him, but Sedgwick held her back. “There’s nothing you can do,” he said. “Be ready to run.”

  Gabrielle wanted to turn away, but she couldn’t help but watch as the marquis staggered to his feet and attempted to stand tall.

  “Is what la mère says true?” Bibot demanded. “Are you the former marquis de Comborn?”

  The marquis held his head high as blood trickled down his pale cheek. “I am. And I mean you no harm. I only wish to—“

  “Get him!” the old hag screamed.

  The marquis flinched and stepped back, but there was no escape. The crowd, which had been seething with anticipation for just such a moment, rushed forward, falling on the aristocrat as though they were ravenous dogs and he the last morsel of meat.

  Gabrielle heard someone scream and realized it was she. The marquis was hit and kicked until he fell to the ground, and then he was pummeled still more. Someone had a stick, another a cudgel, a third a pike, and these implements rained down blows on the marquis’s defenseless form. Soon blood covered the hands and arms of those in the mob who had reached the man first. Others fought to reach him so they too could abuse him.

  Bibot and the soldiers stood and watched, satisfied looks on their faces.

  “Why do the soldiers not stop them?” Gabrielle asked. “Why doesn’t anyone do anything?”

  But before Sedgwick could answer—if there even was an answer—the mob pushed the marquis to his feet. The man was limp, and Gabrielle could only pray he was unconscious or dead. “Take him to La Force!” one man called.

  “Take him to the Place de la Révolution!” a woman yelled.

  “No. Give him justice here and now,” the old hag with her grisly whip ordered. “Let us show these aristocrats they will no longer defy us!”

  “Mort à l’aristocratie!” the crowd roared. With a snarl they tore into the poor man, tearing his clothes his hair, his limbs.

  “Dear God!” Gabrielle cried as they pulled the man between them in a ghastly game of tug-of-war. One of his arms was severed and she screamed.

  Sedgwick’s arms closed about her, and he turned her head away, pressing her face into his chest.

  “Shh,” he soothed. She couldn’t so much hear him as feel his breath against her ear. She closed her eyes, trying to shut the image of the marquis’s bloody arm being waved about, showering the mob with fresh blood. But she feared nothing would ever erase that image.

  “Can you walk?” Sedgwick asked.

  Gabrielle looked up at him, surprised he still looked so normal, his features so composed and calm.

  “What?” she asked, helpless to comprehend anything but the death and destruction taking place a few feet away.

  “Walk with me,” he said. He put his arm about her waist, under her shawl, so she could feel his warmth through the thin layer of her muslin gown. She stumbled in an attempt to make her feet comply with the dictates of her mind.

  “Don’t hurry,” he told her, looking straight ahead. “Just walk as though you have nothing and no one to fear.”

  People rushed to the gate, and she and Sedgwick had to stop and swerve and plunge through those eager to witness the murder of the marquis. No one gave them a second glance, but the skin on Gabrielle’s back prickled. She understood Sedgwick’s plan now. They were escaping before the massacre was over and Bibot could question her again.

  Would the crowd have torn her into pieces when they realized she was not really a lace maker? She stumbled and almost collapsed as her legs turned to water. Sedgwick caught her and held her firmly upright.

  “Gabrielle,” he said sternly, “you must walk. God knows I would carry you, but we don’t want to attract attention. Can you walk?”

  “Yes.” She looked into his green eyes and saw there the steely determination she needed. “Yes.” Her legs still threatened to give way, and she bit the inside of her cheek hard, the pain breaking the numbness threatening to wash over her. Sensation flooded into her legs again and she walked resolutely, if not steadily, away from the gate.

  She did not know how long they walked, she only knew she dared not turn about, dared not look back for fear of seeing the marquis’s mangled body. Or worse, Bibot chasing after her.

  She was out of breath and on the verge of collapse when Sedgwick pushed her against the wall of a bakery. Men and women passed them, giving them curious glances, and the bakery’s owner came out and yelled in coarse French that they couldn’t stop there. Sedgwick tossed the baker a coin, and he went back inside.

  Gabrielle could only stare at Sedgwick. She wanted to hug him. She wanted to bury her face in his coat as she had at the gate. She wanted him to lift her and hold her and never let her go.

  “Where are you staying?” Sedgwick asked.

  Gabrielle could only blink at him. He was speaking in French, and she understood the language, but her mind could not decipher the words.

  “Gabrielle,” Sedgwick said, his voice harsh, “we’re safe now, but we must go inside.”

  As if to punctuate this observation, she heard the roar of a mob not far away. They were singing and yelling, and the sound of breaking glass rent the stillness of the quiet street.

  He took her face between his hands and put his forehead to hers. His gaze was steady, and she drew strength from it. “Listen to me. Where are you staying?”

  Where was she staying? Audley Street and her cozy dining room seemed so far away. How she longed for Cressy and Diana and even silly Violet Cheever. Gabrielle would give anything to be sitting in Violet’s drawing room right now, bored out of her mind with stories of the Scarlet Pimpernel.

  She closed her eyes and forced her mind away from England. She was no schoolgirl, no scared ninny. She was a woman, and she had been in dire circumstances before. No, she had never seen a man torn limb from limb, but she needn’t think of that right now. She needn’t think of anything but the missive from the Pimpernel.

  Thirty-three Rue Saint-Honoré…

  “Thirty-three Rue Saint-Honoré,” she answered.

  “I’m not as familiar with Paris as I’d like,” Sedgwick told her. “Where is it?”

  She was not familiar with Paris at all, not this new Paris. She had often been in Paris when she was in the convent school and her parents came to take her on holiday. She supposed the names of the streets might have changed, but the layout was still the same. She looked around, noting the characteristic narrow streets.

  “Rue Saint-Honoré is close to the Tuileries,” she answered. “Do you know where that is?”

  “I have an idea,” he said, and took her hand.

  They walked past the bakery, and as they did so, the baker came to the door and stared at them. Other shopkeepers watched them as well. Gabrielle looked up at the windows bowed over the street and felt other eyes on her. It seemed all of Paris was s
uspicious and watching. Waiting.

  She shivered.

  “Where are you staying?” she asked as they stepped onto a slightly wider boulevard. It seemed more familiar to her, though the hungry faces and the sly eyes of the men and women they passed did not.

  “With you,” he answered.

  Gabrielle turned to him, a protest on her lips, but she quickly swallowed it. She had told Sedgwick she didn’t need his help. Now she wasn’t so certain.

  But how much information could she trust him with? Should she tell him about the Scarlet Pimpernel or keep her mission a secret? And what about le Saphir Blanc? Sedgwick was obviously an accomplished thief. He might be able to help her steal it. But would he be willing to give it up if he did so?

  The streets looked more familiar to Gabrielle, and soon she led Sedgwick toward Rue Saint-Honoré. They walked quickly, keeping their heads down as most of the Parisians did. Occasionally they heard a commotion or saw a group running toward a square, and Sedgwick would push her into a shop or an alcove and wait until the mob passed.

  Finally, they reached number thirty-three, and Gabrielle let out a sigh of relief. It had grown dark, and she was exhausted.

  “Whose house is this?” Sedgwick asked.

  “I don’t know,” she answered truthfully. “I…” She glanced up at him. “I’m not really here about a cousin Josette.”

  “I’m shocked and appalled,” he drawled. “Do you mean to tell me, Citoyenne Leboeuf, that you were lying to me?”

  She could not think of a witty retort. Her mind felt fuzzy and slow. Instead, she marched to the door marked 33. He followed.

  “Will you confide your true reason for coming to Paris?” he asked.

  She knocked briskly on the door, then looked back at him over her shoulder. “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “On what will you base your decision?”